Andalucian Sunrise

Every morning there’s a donkey serenade:
Arri Burro and his Battered Trombone Orchestra
play-in the sunrise long before Chantecleer’s
Andalucian cousin crows cock-a-hoop at his harem
still sleepy over eggs soon-to-be over-easy
if I make it out of bed to the kitchen
before it’s too hot to breathe, never mind eat.

And I don’t complain,
as the light comes.

Every flower has its petals burgeoning:
any poppy and its purple thistle neighbours
attracts the flying blooms that are butterflies,
colourful accents kiss-chasing in pairs over meadows
more lovely for the quietness of too-soon busy roads
and I make it out the door into sunlight
because it’s too good to miss - any of this.

And I won’t yet leave
Andalucia.